


All The Little Things

by cfcureton



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), olicity - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-01-25 12:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12531872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cfcureton/pseuds/cfcureton
Summary: Just some drabbles, one-offs, and missing scenes from Season 6.





	1. Catching Up

Late morning sunshine flooded the room and left a band of warmth across the bed. Felicity rested her upper body on the mattress, elbows supporting her weight. One hand fiddled with her earring, the other traced a random pattern on the blanket.

“I think the start up is generally headed in a good direction. I mean, we can’t find office space, and we don’t have a name pinned down, and we’re not even sure WHAT we’re going to produce once we HAVE those other things, but yeah, it’s going well.”

She smoothed the pattern made by her finger out of the blanket and abandoned her earring to cup her chin in her hand before continuing.

“It’s a good thing Curtis and I get along so well, because otherwise we might be in trouble.” She chuckled. “He’s really worried about what colors we’re going to use in the logo, which is crazy, since we’re not even ready for a logo yet.” Felicity shook her head with a wry smile. “But I don’t have to tell YOU how neurotic he can be.”

There was a little rumble of a throat being cleared politely, and she swiveled around to the door.

“I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Felicity’s smile was soft. “I have an appointment with a business lawyer near here, so I thought I’d stop in and, you know, say hi.”

Oliver shifted his weight off the doorframe and walked into the room. 

“I’m sure she knows you’re here, even if she can’t acknowledge you,” he said softly, resting a hand on Felicity’s shoulder as he looked at his sister, surrounded by wires and machines. Day after day he walked into this room expecting to see her eyelids flutter, or one of her fingers move, and day after day he left with a little less hope. 

Luckily for Thea, Oliver Queen’s reserve of hope had always been limitless.

Felicity tipped her head to be able to lay it against his outstretched arm for a moment and sighed. Then she shifted away from him enough to reach out and gather Thea’s immobile hand into both of hers, gently caressing her small, thin fingers.

“I hate that she’s alone here,” she said sadly, and Oliver squeezed her shoulder.

“Me too,” he replied in a hoarse whisper.

They shared the space in silence with the occasional whirs and beeps of the machines keeping Thea tethered to their world, until Oliver shifted his feet and sighed.

“Any luck contacting Roy,” he asked.

“Still working on it. I know he would move heaven and earth to get here if he knew.”

Oliver nodded in agreement behind her, then stooped to kiss the top of her head.

“Thanks for being here. I’ll stop by again before I head home.”

He paused at the doorway.

“See you later for dinner?”

Felicity turned her head to smile softly at him and nodded.

“Raisa insisted.” 

He glanced at the floor as the corners of his mouth lifted, then met her eyes again as he turned away.

Felicity watched him leave before returning her focus to the bed and squeezing Thea’s hand.

“Now where was I?”


	2. Thursdays

Even after all these years, Thursday was still her favorite chore day of the week. Raisa put the last of William’s clean clothes in his dresser drawers and returned to the laundry room just off the kitchen.

Despite the army of staff the Queen family had employed, Mr Queen—Robert Queen—had always preferred the way Raisa ironed his shirts. Suits were sent out to be dry cleaned, casual clothes left to other staff, but on Thursdays the shirts went to Raisa, where she could work her magic and then return them to his closet just so.

After five years of nothing but Thea’s school uniforms to iron, Mr Oliver had returned, and Raisa transferred her loving touch to his dress shirts instead; shirts worn to his welcome home party, to family dinners, and later to meetings about his new club. Now, years later, he wore them daily as the mayor, and Raisa’s heart swelled with pride as she pictured it, a boy she almost thought of as her son, running the city. 

The iron hissed with steam as she got to work on the first shirt in the pile, and her thoughts drifted back to the day, five years ago, when she had discovered Oliver Queen’s secret.

————————————————————————-

She hadn’t even known he was home, didn’t even knock before entering his bedroom to return his clean and freshly pressed shirts to his closet. She emerged after hanging them up just as he was leaving his bathroom, lower half wrapped in a towel but his upper body bare.

She had jumped with a cry, both alarmed and embarrassed. Oliver had jumped too, and a strangled “Raisa” had come out of him as she fled the room, apologizing profusely in a jumbled mess of English and Russian. As she pulled the door closed she thought she heard him say “I’m sorry” in Russian, although that made no sense; why should he be sorry when it was her mistake?

Raisa had already suspected that things were not as they seemed during their first family dinner, when she had tripped and nearly dumped the fruit bowl in Oliver’s lap. While he was growing up she had taught him a word of Russian here, a phrase there, but never what he had said to her in that moment: “It is nothing”. It had rolled off his tongue like the most natural thing in the world and left the whole table speechless.

She had now heard him speak Russian twice, but that was not what had shaken her: The glimpse she got of him in his bedroom—of the tattoo on his chest—made her blood run cold. Raisa had grown up in a good family in Russia, but she recognized the origin of that tattoo; her father was constantly plagued by the Bratva. They would come into his shop, large, brutal men, and demand protection money. As she got older they began to show an interest in more than just his money, and her father vowed to do whatever it took to get her away, to America, and that he did.

Oliver with a Bratva tattoo meant two things: He had not spent all of his five years away on that island, and he had come back a very dangerous man.

Not long after that day she began to find more clues, most tellingly the bloody bandages in his bathroom trash. Oliver Queen and blood had never exactly been strangers; he sustained plenty of minor injuries during lacrosse, and that broken nose from playing hockey. And more than once Tommy had snuck him in the back of the mansion, bloodied from an encounter with the angry boyfriend of a girl he had no business dabbling with. 

But mysterious fresh wounds, the marks of old wounds on his body, and the strange news reports of a violent hooded figure that had the whole city on edge added up in Raisa’s mind pretty quickly.

She kept her suspicions to herself—even though she felt that Mr Diggle must know about this too—until the night she saw Oliver leaving, in one of her crisply ironed shirts, to a charity auction and couldn’t stop herself from whispering “Be careful, Mr Oliver” to his retreating back.

Oliver had frozen in that moment, gone completely still, and John, who was waiting for him at the door, had frozen too. The bodyguard’s eyes had flicked sharply to her, but Raisa kept her focus on the younger man’s back.

He finally turned back, looking both relieved and terrified; her heart broke for him. He closed the space between them and put both hands on her upper arms. She had to tilt her head back quite far to meet his eyes at such close range.

“There is much to tell you,” he murmured in Russian with a noticeable American accent, “but not tonight. I will be careful, little mother.”

She had never heard him use the endearment with her before, and it brought tears to her eyes, but she didn’t try to stop him as he walked out the door.

Not many months later, Mrs Queen had wandered into her world while she was cooking; a memorable moment, because Moira Queen was not a woman who “wandered”.

She had made small talk with Raisa, also unusual, and then suddenly reached out to lay a familiar-yet-alien hand on her arm.

“Raisa,” she began softly, “is there something...going on...with Oliver?” Her beautiful blue eyes were pleading, and Raisa understood how hard it was for this woman to ask the question.

She couldn’t keep her employer’s gaze for a long moment, because she wasn’t sure what to say. Finally, she looked back up.

“It is not my secret to tell, Mrs Queen. I am sorry.”

The other woman had nodded, stress and worry lines etched on her face, but she did manage a smile of understanding before turning to leave. At the doorway Moira turned back.

“Please take care of him, Raisa,” Mrs Queen had pleaded, barely a whisper, and Raisa had nodded in return.

————————————————————————

She sighed now over the memory, shaking out the last shirt, a light blue one, her favorite. Oliver’s call to her five months ago had turned her life upside down, but she had immediately agreed to move in to his new apartment and help him with William.

Those first weeks had been a bewildering time of adjustment; she was up every night with one or the other Queen male’s nightmares. She watched Oliver struggle to come to grips with a sad, angry, pre-teen boy who also happened to be his son. 

The best she could do for them was to provide stability and comfort in their home, so she cooked meals, kept the place tidy, and yes, made sure the shirts were ironed.

In the past couple of weeks Raisa had felt another shift in the Queen family, and it made her both happy and sad. It was obvious that Mr Oliver and Miss Felicity would be together—SHOULD be together—and that they would make a strong couple. Plus Oliver was quite a good cook, and now that they had established a list of several meals William would eat reliably, there was less and less for her to do.

It was only a matter of time before Raisa would only be needed during the day, to keep the house and be available when William came home from school, but after that the new family would want time to themselves.

Raisa smiled a little as she placed the final shirt on a hanger and carried all of them to Oliver’s closet: It would be nice to get back to her small apartment on the south side of the city.

She was just coming out of the bedroom when she heard the front door slam and a voice on the verge of changing call out “Raisa! I’m home.”

“Coming,” she called back happily. It was Thursday, and even if it was temporary, she still had a Queen to look after.


	3. Felicity Smoak: Library Vigilante

“Hey you.”

“Hey.”

Despite the load of computer equipment, mail, and bagels Felicity was carrying, she still smiled into the phone. She loved his “Hey”. She loved him. She loved them. She loved everything.

“What’s up,” she chirped, juggling her load as she let herself into the loft and staggered to the kitchen counter.

She heard Oliver hesitate before answering.

“I need a favor.”

“Sure. How can I help?”

“Way back on Meet the Teacher night I signed up to volunteer a day at William’s school, but the day I signed up for is tomorrow, which is also the first day of hearings for the Anti-Vigilante Referendum, and I can’t possibly miss that.” 

“Oh. Okay. What would I be doing?”

“Working in the Media Center. The library,” he clarified quickly.

“Oh! Sounds fun. I’d love to.”

“Really? That’s great. I’ll email the school and tell them you’re saving the day.”

Felicity laughed. “Don’t get too excited. It’s just a library.”

“Media Center.”

“Whatever.”

Oliver chuckled. “Okay. See you tonight.”

—————————————————-

Felicity perched on the bar stool in Oliver’s kitchen, finishing off her plate of chicken alfredo with broccoli by aimlessly herding the broccoli around the plate with her fork. William was sitting next to her, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“You going to eat that broccoli or just exercise it to death?”

“Hey,” she countered, waving her fork at him, “I get enough vegetable judgement from your father, thank you very much.”

He grinned and dropped his eyes to his own dinner as Oliver looked on proudly from the kitchen side of the bar counter.

“You ready for tomorrow,” he asked her as he wiped around the sink.

“Sure,” she answered brightly, shrugging her shoulders. “It’ll be cool hanging out with William.”

William’s forehead crinkled up for a moment.

“My class doesn’t go to the Media Center tomorrow.”

“Oh. Well, I guess I’ll hang out with thirty other sixth graders then,” she amended, trying to see the bright side of this new development.

“Classes go through there all afternoon. It’ll be more like 90 sixth graders.” She went a little pale at his words. 

“Felicity, you’re going to be great,” Oliver offered assuredly, his voice soft. She melted a little at his heart eyes and William groaned. 

“That would be my cue to leave,” he quipped, shifting down off the bar stool and collecting his dishes. Felicity grinned at Oliver and he chuckled. 

“Get started on that math, buddy,” she ordered. “I’ll be right behind you.” 

——————————————————

She reported to school the next day at five minutes to one.

“Hi,” she began to the front office secretary. “I’m here to work in the library.”

“The Media Center? Sign in and take a Visitor sticker.”

Felicity bristled slightly at being corrected but did as she was instructed, peeling a sticker from the roll and smoothing it out onto the front of her dress.

“Out these doors and make a right. You’ll see it straight ahead.” The secretary was already turning away to answer the phone.

She found it with no problem, and a smile lit up her face as soon as she entered: Books always had that effect on her. 

The round circulation desk sat in the middle of the room surrounded by low bookcases. Two corners of the room were taken up by tables and chairs, a brightly colored group of beanbag chairs slouched in a third. There was a glassed-in room holding the copier and laminating machine to her right, and a separate area filled with computer stations to her left. Felicity was in heaven.

The librarian introduced herself and showed her the computer they used for checking books in and out using the students’ ID badges. Felicity relaxed; this day was going to be a cinch. 

And then the first class came in. 

——————————————————

It was more like an explosion of pre-teen humanity than an entry, thirty William-sized bodies squeezing through the doors and tumbling out into the open space. Their voices were raised, the girls squealing and chattering, the boys practicing kung fu moves on each other accompanied by blood-curdling yells. Felicity was glad she was safely behind the circulation desk.

The librarian set about corralling them into seats and asked for quiet, then explained the day’s agenda; half the class would start out looking for a book and silently reading while the other half worked at the computers. Then they would switch. 

She released them to their assignments, and Felicity watched in barely-concealed horror as students burst up from their seats, either careening to the computers or diving into the beanbag chairs. She had never seen anyone RUN in a library before. It defied explanation.

“Are they always like this,” Felicity asked incredulously as the librarian resumed her post behind the desk. The woman surveyed the room and shrugged.

“Pretty much. They don’t get many other chances to burn off excess energy.” She leveled her gaze at her volunteer. “That’s what happens when you get rid of recess.”

Felicity shook her head in shock; she couldn’t imagine dealing with this on a daily basis. Her reverie was interrupted by a boy needing to check out a book, and then a girl approached her and asked for help locating a title. 

This I can do, she said to herself as she led the girl to the Fiction section and explained to her how to find the book alphabetically. 

“PAR, PAS, here it is. PAT. Wait. What’s FAT doing here?” She pulled the correct book for the student and handed it to her absently while grabbing the mis-shelved book with her other hand. “YOU are in the wrong spot,” she scolded it mildly.

Felicity returned it to its rightful place as another student approached and asked for help finding a specific book about Native Americans.

“Okay,” she nodded enthusiastically, getting the hang of this Friendly Librarian thing. “That’s going to be in Non-Fiction, in the 900s.”

“How’d you know that,” the boy asked skeptically.

“Because...well, I don’t know how. But I do. Let’s go.”

They found the 900s, but the book was missing.

“The computer says it’s in,” the boy stated flatly.

“Well, that could be, but it isn’t HERE, and HERE is where it should be.” Felicity sighed. “Maybe it’s lost.”

“But the computer didn’t SAY it was lost,” he continued, apparently unfazed by the crinkly thing her forehead was doing.

“Look, maybe this is a good question for the actual librarian.” She steered him toward the counter as a group of boys playing tag—TAG?!?—blew past her.

“Slow down, please,” she whisper-shouted at their oblivious backs. Felicity had never so much as raised her voice in a library, and she was not about to start today.

It was 55 minutes of barely-controlled chaos, but finally the class packed up and headed out when their teacher showed up to retrieve them.

“Whew, glad that’s over,” Felicity sighed as she leaned back against the desk.

The librarian just smiled and pointed over her shoulder.

The next class was storming through the door.

——————————————————-

Amidst the ruckus of the second class period a student approached the desk with his school-issued laptop. (William had come home with an identical one at the beginning of the school year, and Felicity was itchy to get her hands on it because UPGRADES, but so far Oliver’s Frowny Face had prevented her.)

“What can I do for you, young man,” she asked in her best Tech Village voice.

“The clock is wrong, but the computer lady isn’t here today.”

“Oh, well that’s easy enough to change in the Control Panel.”

He shook his head sadly. “It takes a password, and only the computer lady knows it.”

Felicity huffed an “Oh please” at him and spun the laptop around. She cracked her knuckles and then groaned, shaking out her fingers.

“Ow. Don’t do that,” she warned him. “It’s bad for you.”

Within thirty seconds she was in and had the time reset.

“There you go, kiddo,” she smiled.

“Wow,” he breathed, his eyes wide. “Can you show me how to do that?”

“Well of course!” She happened to glance up and caught the librarian looking at her, one eyebrow cocked in an uncanny impression of her boyfriend. “I mean, no, no I cannot. I probably shouldn’t have done that, actually.” Felicity shooed him away with a strained smile.

As the second class roamed the room a teacher came in with her hands full of papers. She was headed for the copy machine, but the librarian’s voice stopped her.

“The copier’s broken.” She didn’t say it, but the “again” was strongly implied. The teacher groaned.

“Well is the laminator working at least?”

The librarian shook her head no. The teacher groaned a second time and left in defeat.

Felicity eyed the room with interest. 

“Mind if I have a look?”

“Be my guest,” she replied. “At this point they can’t get MORE broken.”

Felicity was still knee-deep in misbehaving machinery when the second class left and the third galloped in. This was the last class of the day, so they were even more keyed up. 

She emerged from the copier room, hands smudged black with toner, and was almost mowed down by a gang of boys running past.

“DO NOT RUN,” she ordered, in her loud voice.

Minutes later she found herself in Non-Fiction again, skimming through the 600s in an effort to help a student. 

“Technology, this is my kind of stuff,” she mumbled mostly to herself as she ran her finger over the spines of the books. Suddenly she stopped short.

“Hey! What’s a book from the 900s doing here?” She gasped. “It’s the darn Native American book we were looking for earlier!”  
She pulled it out and waved it around for emphasis; the student looked mildly alarmed. 

“I wonder how many other books are in the wrong section,” she mused, a glint in her eye.

——————————————————-

“Phone call for you, Mr Queen,” his assistant called out, “from your son’s school.”

Oliver frowned and tapped his phone to check the time: five o’clock, way past time for school to be over.

“Send it through,” he replied, trying to push down the panic that always threatened to bubble up when a phone call involved his son. Rene was sitting in the chair across from his desk and stared at him with only slightly less concern. It was a dad thing, apparently.

“This is Mayor Queen,” he said into the phone, then sat listening for several beats, his brow knitting in concern. 

“I understand. Absolutely. I’ll be right there.”

He stood and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair.

“We’re all done for the day.”

“Is it William,” Rene asked.

“No. It’s Felicity.”

———————————————————

The librarian AND the principal were waiting to let him into the building. They gave Oliver a rundown of events as they walked, and just as they entered the room the librarian said, “We’ve never had this happen in the Media Center before...”

“LIBRARY,” a very familiar voice corrected sternly, although its owner was not in sight. Oliver followed the sound to its source, and found Felicity sitting on the floor behind one of the bookcases, surrounded by books. Her shoes were missing, and her hair was coming out of its ponytail. There was a smudge of toner on the end of her nose.

“Hey,” he said softly, hands in his pockets. “What’s going on?”

“I am CLEARLY bringing order to chaos.” She waved a hand around her to indicate either the order or the chaos; it was hard to tell.

“Felicity, it’s after five o’clock, and these ladies would like to get home.”

Felicity sighed. “There’s still so much left to do. All of these books were shelved wrong, which means kids who need them can’t find them. I got the copier working, but there is definitely a bug in the software. I just haven’t had a chance to find it.”

As she talked Oliver picked his way through the scattered books to squat down next to her, but she was still sorting through the bookcase and didn’t seem to notice.

“The LAMINATOR,” she continued, “is just an asshole.”

“Hon, where are your shoes?”

Felicity finally broke off her rant and looked at him.

“The 100s, I think.” Oliver blinked at her a couple of times. “Philosophy and Religion.”

“It’s time to get you home,” he said, brushing her hair back with one hand and holding out the other for her to take.

She let him haul her to her feet and then surveyed the carnage.

“We’ve let Dewey down,” she said sadly.

“Dewey?” Oliver looked blank again.

“Melvil Dewey. He invented the Dewey Decimal System.” 

“Oh.”

Felicity bent and quickly stacked the books into neat piles and transferred them to the top of a bookcase while Oliver hunted up her shoes, and then the principal walked them out. 

———————————————————————

“What about this?”

Felicity and William had their heads together over her tablet, waiting for dinner to be finished.

“Is that a kid-sized exercise bike? Cool!”

“With a countertop to put your book on, so you can pedal and read at the same time.”

The two looked at each other and grinned, and Oliver, ladling soup into bowls, thought he might die of happiness.

“Do you think the school can get some of those bikes for the Media Center,” William asked as she set the tablet aside and Oliver presented dinner.

“Maybe. We’ll probably have to write a grant.”

“I’ll put you in touch with people who can help,” Oliver offered, and Felicity nodded. Her spoon was hovering over her soup bowl when she froze.

“Oliver. Is this vegetable soup?”

“With beef. And some little noodles. Don’t overthink it.”


	4. Girl On Top

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been noted by many that Felicity seems to prefer being on top. Here’s another perspective, thanks to the inspiration of @oliverfelicitygifs on Tumblr.
> 
> Also, let’s assume, for argument’s sake, that Slade waits another 30 minutes to make that phone call. ;)

He never liked to think about it, but sometimes the memory came to him unbidden.

He was standing on the limb of a tree, far above the forest floor of Lian Yu, following Diggle and Felicity’s progress through the trees. He had one particular recurring nightmare of the ‘shnick’ the landmine made when Felicity stepped on it; he had heard it from his perch. The memory of that sound could still bring him upright out of a deep sleep. 

In the moment there was no hesitation on his part: Fire the arrow, secure the line, swing down and save the girl. One, two, three. But after,—YEARS after, apparently—his mind could still relive the angst he had blocked out at the time. Would the line be long enough? Would the arrow hold? Would his trajectory be true, or would he miss and swing past her and maybe, embarrassingly, crash into Diggle instead?

None of these things had happened, of course. His aim was perfect and they had whumped into the loamy earth, his arm securely banded around her, his body half covering hers on the ground. A detached part of his brain that, even in his late twenties, still seemed to constantly think about sex had made note of the way she fit under him, like his own personal puzzle piece. 

It was a sensation he had filed away to think about later, and over the years he certainly did, especially after he finally realized that his drive to protect her was inspired by not only honor, and duty, but love. 

Now the rough brick wall of the loft was under one of his hands, Felicity Smoak occupied by the other. The promise of “dessert” had hung between them for days, and he was beyond ready to get to it. 

But as he pulled her away from the wall and shuffled them both toward the couch he had a momentary, unwanted flash of flying clods of dirt, the heat of the explosion, a blonde ponytail splayed out beneath him on the ground. 

Oliver hesitated as the back of her legs came to a stop against the arm of the couch, spinning them at the last moment so that he fell under her onto the leather cushions, and let her hair and her hands and her mouth smother the memory once more.


	5. Sense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit more of the Olicity scene in 6.05.   
> My original idea for this one kind of stalled out, and then I got distracted by my Secret Santa gift. When I revisited it, this happened. I blame alt-j’s Every Other Freckle. Give it a listen. ;)

He heard her key in the door; sensed her even before, coming down the hall, if he was honest. After a couple of weeks off from constantly using all of his senses to keep himself alive they sometimes overreacted.

Right now, for instance, he could already pick out the scent of her shampoo as she leaned on the doorframe to his room. He hadn’t missed hearing her conversational tone with William about math either, but he didn’t let on that he’d heard when she questioned him about quadratic equations. The power of her presence made his answer a little vague and distracted.

She crossed the room to him and he was suddenly engulfed by everything that made this woman FELICITY in block letters in his brain. The top half of her was all shampoo and hairspray and fabric softener, but the bottom half...

Oliver swallowed thickly. Those tanned, incredibly toned legs. Felicity always made it a point to barely mist those legs with body spray each morning, up high, under her skirt. She didn’t have a signature scent, like most women seemed to. He knew from experience that most days she stood in front of her collection of scents and mumbled “MOOD” under her breath before choosing. 

It didn’t always depend on how she was feeling, however; it could vary by season as well: Apple or Pumpkin Cupcake in the fall, some combination of peppermint and vanilla to warm him in the winter. Spring was a cacophony of florals, citrus in the summer. 

She used such a small amount that most days he couldn’t tell which scent she’d put on until he was down there, which was torture if they had a long day (or night) ahead of them before he’d have a chance to find out. In those times, when he couldn’t take it anymore, he’d feign an untied shoe in order to take a knee near her chair. A suspicious number of pens got dropped by him around her on those nights.

Their 18 months apart—18 months of being so close to knowing, but so many thousands of miles away—had nearly killed him.

Oliver blinked once, long and slow, to shake himself out of those thoughts so he could focus on the question at hand: Should he fulfill his promise and go with Slade to look for his son and risk breaking a promise to his own, or stay? Stay with this incredible woman in front of him, who could set him on fire before she’d even touched him. 

“I want you to tell me not to go,” he said huskily, with a hint of a smile, because he really didn’t want to go. Promises be damned, he wanted HER. Now, later, tomorrow, all the time that he’d potentially be wasting running around with Slade.

He kept his hands in his pockets, because if he reached for her it would all be over, and that would be bad: Echoey, concrete walls and a kid in the next room were turning out to be two very incompatible things. He was going to fire his real estate agent.

Felicity’s words, while wise and strangely pro-Slade, were not turning out to be the answer he was hoping for, but she was making a lot of sense. Scents, his stupid brain corrected against his will. And then, to make it worse, her fingertips skated over his skin as she reached out to adjust his collar and he felt the impact like an electric shock. 

He knew he had that goofy heart-eyes look on his face; everybody had been ribbing him about it, even Raisa, whose knowing smile always made him blush.

Going back into the field distracted like this would never do. 

So this was it: He was going to pack his bag, cook dinner for his family, and then get on a plane with his frenemy. As soon as...

Oliver took hold of Felicity’s waist and pivoted her until the backs of her legs brushed against the end of the bed. 

“Oliver, wha—“

He guided her down and back, and then dropped to his knees.

“I’ll go. But first things first.”


	6. The Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during the Crossover, but before the final scenes.

Oliver jerked awake with a gasp and lay in the dark with his heart racing. One hand was raised off the bed, cupping an invisible cheek; the hand was shaking.

He turned his head to confirm that Felicity was with him, curled on her side away from him, asleep. Her hair and one bare shoulder were the only things visible.

The nightmare had been mild, by his standards. He had always been a vivid dreamer, but post-island his terrors had often left him on the other side of the room when he awoke, sometimes screaming. This one hadn’t even jostled Felicity.

He dropped his shaking hand to the bed and sorted back through the dream that was already dissolving like smoke. Smoak. That was it: A girl—a waif, really—filthy, with dark, stringy hair and a tear-stained face. He hadn’t even recognized her at first, intent as he was at keeping up his facade, playing the game through to the end until he could get his team home.

When he made the connection, saw his EarthX Felicity, he knew that his cover was blown. Evil Quentin—supremely evil, which was disturbing—had cottoned on that his fearless leader was not as he seemed, and had called the biggest bluff imaginable. 

As she knelt at his feet, petrified, pleading not for herself but for starving children, he recognized the qualities that made her—the other her—the woman he loved and admired. In that moment he willed Quentin not to look his way, because if he did he would see compassion and fear in Oliver’s eyes, and they would both be dead. 

After, when he was reaching for her out of sheer instinct, it flashed through his head what she must see when she looked at him, and his stomach dropped. Little did he know in that moment that his doppelgänger would very shortly be placed in the same position with HIS Felicity, but he would make a very different choice. 

Oliver ran a hand through his hair and stared at the ceiling. What would become of her? He’d handed her a gun to give her a chance, but he knew it could just as easily become her death warrant. Not for the first time he second-guessed that choice; he could’ve brought her back with him, but then, what? He doubted this world was ready for two copies of Felicity Smoak. He vowed to ask Snart to find her and free her when he returned to Earth X.

He let out a long slow breath and thought of the woman beside him. Should he tell her? What would it do to her to know that there was another HER, a prisoner on another planet, maybe already dead from his actions. Oliver thought of his own double, now dead, and shuddered. No, this was a secret to be kept out of mercy, at least until some time had passed and her memories of almost being killed by his lookalike had faded. 

It was over; they were together, that was all that mattered. He’d told her it didn’t matter if they were married or not, and that was the truth. Oliver rolled toward Felicity, pulled her against him, and buried his face in her hair as he waited for sleep to claim him once more.


	7. Into the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set before 6.07.

“WHICH ONE OF YOU WAS IT?!”

Felicity was still standing in the elevator when she began speaking, making her Loud Voice even louder as it reverberated off the metal surrounding her. Although they’d seen her coming on the security monitor, Rene’s head still whipped toward that side of the room in tandem with Dinah’s. Curtis jumped a foot.

She strode out of the elevator dressed to the nines, a murderous look in her eye, and stomped up the steps to the bank of computers where her three team members waited with their jaws on the floor. It was not often that Felicity Smoak got mad enough to yell.

“Hey Felicity,” Curtis offered, trying to pull off nonchalance, while Dinah stared at her wide eyed and Rene failed to make eye contact at all.

“I had him all but talked out of it. Which one of you convinced Oliver that leading William’s after school club on a weekend wilderness trip would be a GOOD IDEA?!” Felicity’s voice raised in volume with every word. She folded her arms and tapped the toe of one high heel in an angry staccato while she waited for somebody to answer.

Dinah looked surprised and Curtis looked confused; Rene shuffled his feet and looked at everything but Felicity.

“Rene...”

He swallowed hard. “It’s a...good PR story?”

“Oliver Queen teaching survival skills to a bunch of Middle Schoolers is a VERY BAD IDEA, RENE.” Wild Dog winced at her volume, but kept his eyes lowered. 

Felicity’s arms unfolded to wave around herself in exasperation as she continued.

“What happens when William’s classmates AND THEIR FATHERS come back to Star City telling tales of the Mayor Tarzan-ing through the trees shirtless and whipping up four-course meals with only a homemade bow and arrow and his bare hands? Do you think the FBI would be interested in a PR story like that?!” She huffed at the end of her diatribe, throwing her hands up in the air. 

“Maybe...he...won’t?” Curtis was nothing if not loyal, and seemed willing to throw himself on the grenade Rene had inadvertently pulled the pin on. 

Felicity’s head rolled to Curtis sarcastically and she speared him with a look that clearly said ‘Oh REALLY’.

“Uh, I could go along, keep an eye on him...” Rene offered hopefully, but Felicity was already throwing up a hand to stop him as she turned away to shed her coat.

“NO, I’ve got it handled,” she shut him down sternly. She spun back around and threw a look at Curtis; he popped up out of her chair like he’d been shot out of a cannon.

“Wilderness Survival Camp,” she scoffed under her breath, plopping into her seat hard enough to send it rolling. She hadn’t been this irritated since Oliver Queen, CEO had asked her to get him coffee. The memory of that day suddenly added on a whole new layer of mad.

“What are you going to do,” Dinah asked quietly from a safe distance behind her shoulder.

“I’m gonna break the coffee maker,” Felicity muttered darkly as her fingers flew.

————————————————————————

Felicity let herself into Oliver’s apartment and found him leaning against the back of the couch, staring at his phone with a look of consternation.

“What’s with the frowny face,” she asked, dropping her purse on a nearby chair and kicking off both shoes with a sigh of relief.

The crease between his brows smoothed out, but he didn’t lift his eyes from what he was reading.

“It’s the Wilderness Survival Camp this weekend. Suddenly our numbers are way down.” He shifted his weight off the couch to stand as he continued.

“The Patterson’s won a weekend cruise for the whole family, so they’re going to do that instead. The O’Malley’s home equity loan was approved sooner than they thought, so they’re going to stay home and put their new basketball goal and hot tub in. The Fisk’s, The Owen’s, The Garcia’s, all canceled.”

“Oh, shoot. That’s too bad. I know you were looking forward to going,” she sympathized, reaching out to rub his arm consolingly.

Oliver’s eyes lifted to hers and held her gaze for so long that she had to stop herself from gulping, because his look said—

“You about ready, buddy,” Oliver called out, his eyes never leaving Felicity’s.

William emerged from his bedroom with a large backpack and a sleeping bag. 

“I didn’t know if I should bring a raincoat—oh hey, Felicity.” She gave him a little wave and tried not to stare at his gear.

“Better to have it, just in case.” Oliver once again pinned her with that gaze; this time she did swallow. “You never know what adversity we might run into,” he finished. 

“But I thought you had a meeting with Councilman Tucker scheduled for Saturday,” she said, as casually as she could manage. 

Oliver moved off to the corner of the living room where his own pack was laying and stooped to pick it up and heft it onto his shoulder.

“Yeah, that was some kind of weird scheduling mix up.” He lifted one eyebrow oh-so slowly; Felicity could feel heat rise in her face. “I got in touch with the Councilman, and we both agreed that we could meet just as well out in the woods, since he and his son were already planning to go.”

“Oh. Good,” she said breathlessly. There was no choice but to stand and watch as the Queen men loaded themselves up with their gear and moved toward the front door. Oliver stopped with his hand on the doorknob and turned his head back to her.

“Oh! Right. I should go too.” Felicity scurried to her shoes and stepped into them as fast as she could, then scooped her purse up and followed William through the door that Oliver was holding open. As she passed him he leaned down to ask for a kiss and she eagerly complied, snatching the smooch right before William turned around and caught them.

“Be safe,” she advised Oliver, one hand pressed to his chest before she pulled back and stepped around him.

“We’ll be fine. See you Sunday.”

————————————————————————-

“It’s good to see you, Mayor Queen. I confess I never pictured you as the outdoorsy type.” 

Councilman Tucker was a handsome man, past forty but very fit. He looked like he was just as comfortable in jeans and a flannel shirt as he was a suit. Oliver smiled blandly but didn’t answer.

“A group of us at Harvard used to camp on the weekends. Great stuff. Didn’t you go to Harvard, Mayor?”

“Briefly,” Oliver replied, keeping his expression neutral. The Councilman nodded.

“I remember getting a tour of the Queen Family Co-Rec during an alumni weekend. Just goes to show that there’s more than one way to get into an Ivy League school.” He turned to William and his own son with a smile. “Don’t be afraid to think outside the box, boys.”

Oliver swallowed a retort and willed his hands not to curl into fists, but then he caught sight of the look on William’s face and his stomach dropped. It was mostly unreadable, but there was definitely some confusion and maybe shame there too. Oliver gritted his teeth.

“My friends call me Tuck,” his colleague continued, slinging his backpack across his broad back and clapping a hand on his own son’s shoulder. “This is Joshua.”

Oliver shook hands with the young man and introduced William to Tuck before moving to gather up his own gear. They had been dropped off at the head of the first trail inside the National Forest; the plan was to hike in a couple of miles before leaving the trail to set up camp for the next two nights. A cell tower at the fire watch station insured that they would be able to communicate with the outside world in an emergency. 

A little over an hour later the two fathers agreed on a spot to leave the trail, and they plunged into the woods, but not before Oliver tied a bright orange plastic ribbon to one of the lower tree branches at the trail’s edge.

“Just in case,” Oliver said, when Tuck raised an eyebrow.

They pushed through the undergrowth for another 30 minutes before finding a clearing where several big trees had fallen some time ago. Oliver slipped away while the others were piling up sticks and clearing some of the ground at the site; he returned 15 minutes later, as quietly as he had left.

“There’s a stream a half a mile away. This is a good site,” he told them quietly, giving William a small smile. Then he set about showing his son how to cut down some of the larger evergreen branches and weave them into a shelter backing up against one of the fallen trees. It was time-consuming work, and Tuck said as much from the expensive two-man tent he and his son had erected in mere minutes. Oliver’s only answer was a closed-mouth smile.

“Could you get a fire going,” he asked, eyes intent on the work he and his son were doing.

Each pair had brought their own food, but combined their offerings and shared it out over the crackling campfire in woods grown dark and slightly chilly. While the boys worked to roast marshmallows and extract them onto graham crackers and chocolate, Oliver moved around the campfire to settle closer to his counterpart.

“So, Councilman,” he began before the other held up a hand to stop him.

“Please, Tuck.”

Oliver huffed a small laugh, his eyes dropping to the fire in front of them.

“Okay. Tuck. Call me Oliver.” William and Joshua excitedly held up their first attempt at dessert and both men admired the sticky messes before Oliver continued.

“What will it take to convince you that voting against the Anti-Vigilante legislation is the right thing to do?”

Tuck leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and regarded Oliver candidly.

“Honestly, Oliver, I’ve never believed these...people...have any motivation to help anybody but themselves. They’re dressing up in costumes, running around the city playing a game. Yes, a criminal or two has been caught, but just as many innocent people have been hurt by them. All things considered, I think Star City is better off without them.”

Oliver nodded slowly as he stared into the fire, his clenched jaw masked by the jumping shadows of the flames. 

“Well, Tuck, my family and I have some experience dealing with the vigilantes, and all I can tell you is that they’ve inspired me to be a better person, and to try harder.” Oliver placed his hand over his chest to emphasize his words, and the two stared at each other for a moment. 

“Then I guess I’d have to see that for myself,” the Councilman replied, bringing their conversation to an end.

———————————————————————-

The wind had picked up all evening and was becoming alarmingly gusty just as they were getting ready to turn in, so Oliver suggested that they douse the fire entirely to prevent the possibility of it accidentally spreading. Tuck looked a little reluctant, but said nothing as he watched Oliver put out the flames.

Oliver unrolled William’s sleeping bag toward the back of their homemade shelter, then rolled out his own and lay down on top of it.

“Aren’t you going to get in your sleeping bag,” William whispered. 

“No buddy, I’m good,” his dad replied, laying a hand on his shoulder briefly before turning onto his side facing the entrance to the shelter.

“It’s pretty dark without the fire,” the boy whispered a minute later.

Oliver grinned in the darkness, his back to his son.

“William,” he whispered, “sit up for a second. What do you see?”

He heard the rustling of his son behind him and then a small gasp. The full moon had recently risen above the trees, and the Tuckers’ state-of-the-art tent, trimmed out in reflective tape, glowed softly in the middle of the clearing.

William breathed a “WOW” and Oliver chuckled. There was more rustling for a moment, and then silence behind him.

The lightning and thunder began an hour later. Oliver lay awake, one arm folded under his head, and watched the light show illuminate the trees, their tops whipping back and forth in the wind. He contemplated their shelter, and decided that it would hold up to a bit of rain, but more than likely he and William would have a soggy night. He sighed. Even with that unpleasant prospect he couldn’t make himself wish to be sleeping in an enclosed tent. 

The lightening and thunder increased, but no rain ever fell. Once a brilliant flash simultaneously accompanied a thunder clap that rent the air and made even Oliver jump; behind him William sat straight up in fear. 

“It’s okay,” Oliver soothed. “That was just a close one.”

His son sank back down to the ground, but Oliver could hear his rapid breathing for several minutes after. It finally evened out and he knew William had gone back to sleep. 

Oliver dozed.

———————————————————————-

He could not say what woke him, but he was immediately alert, his pulse picking up steadily the longer he was awake. Oliver lay completely still and listened, his eyes searching the darkness for any movement. The moon had set and the tent no longer glowed.

He noted that the wind had finally slacked off, and that’s when he heard it; a rustling just outside of the clearing. Oliver lay perfectly still as two shadows separated themselves from the rest of the forest and moved toward the tent staked in the center of the campsite.

His eyes tracked the figures’ progress as they inspected the tent. So far his shelter had gone overlooked, probably because it was indistinguishable from the trees around it. Oliver simultaneously willed his son to stay asleep and cursed his luck for not having a bow handy.

The two shadows practically merged at the front of the tent, and he picked up the faint murmur of conversation as they debated what to do. Then one of the figures crouched, presumably to reach for the zipper, and Oliver knew with a sinking heart that he would have to act. 

He might not have his usual weapons, but he was not unarmed. He slowly pulled his knees into his chest and reached down into his boot for the knife, pulling it out of its sheath as quietly as possible. 

Oliver waited to hear the sound of the zipper, and concentrated on not holding his breath. When the crouched figure began to merge with the tent, he moved. He rolled to his feet silently, taking the time to circle around behind the other figure in an attempt to keep his sleeping son from being noticed.

He tackled the first man hard and fast, throwing him off balance and on to the ground in a heap. The man grunted but did not cry out, reaching behind him in an effort to get ahold of Oliver. They struggled briefly, but Oliver had his arm locked around the man’s throat, working to choke him into unconsciousness.

Just as the body in his arms was beginning to go limp there was a shout from inside the tent, and light suddenly cut through the night as a flashlight clicked on. Oliver doubled his efforts and the hands scrabbling at him fell away. He let go and rolled the man away from him as he surged to his feet.

There was definitely a scuffle going on inside the tent, and Oliver’s heart rate picked up another level when he heard Joshua’s whimpered cries as well as the two grown men struggling. 

He had his hand on the tent flap when he heard one of the men cry out in agony, and the boy screech in panic. Oliver plunged into the tent and grabbed the body on top, assuming it was the attacker. He backpedaled out of the tent with the man in his fists, trying to put as much distance between them and the Tuckers before momentum took over and he found himself on the ground, under the man. 

He didn’t have as good a grip on this one, so he employed the knife, brandishing it close enough so that the man could see it.

“Don’t,” Oliver ordered quietly, and the man immediately stilled.

“Oliver,” Tuck called out then, pain and fear in his voice.

“I’m here,” he called back reassuringly. “Are you two okay?”

“Josh is fine. My leg...it might be broken,” he ground out, obviously hurting.

Oliver cursed under his breath and heaved his captive over so that he could get up. 

“Okay. Give me a minute and I’ll be right there.”

Oliver had a good amount of rope in his pack, and within minutes both men were tied up in front of the fire that he had re-started but with their backs to the shelter and William, who had managed to sleep through everything. 

He left them there and approached the tent, dropping to his knees to peer inside. The flashlight illuminated Tuck’s pale and sweating face, and Joshua’s look of terror. 

“Hey kiddo,” Oliver said softly, holding out a hand for him. “I need to get in here to look at your dad, but there’s not much room. Can I put you in my shelter with William for a minute?”

Joshua stared at him, frozen in terror, until his father nudged him toward Oliver with reassurances that it would be alright. He came willingly after that, but he was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering. Oliver pulled him close and walked him to the shelter, unzipping his sleeping bag and helping him in before zipping it up.

“You stay here with William, buddy. Everything’s going to be fine, and I will be right back.” Joshua was still wide-eyed with fear, but managed to nod.

It didn’t take a degree in medicine to know that Tuck’s leg was definitely broken; awkward angles didn’t lie. Oliver contained his grimace and tried to be as reassuring as possible while he reached for the cell phone in his pocket.

“Shit,” he said softly when he read NO SERVICE on the screen. Tuck’s phone had no better news.

“The lightning storm must’ve taken out the cell tower,” Oliver muttered, suddenly very over the idea of camping. He shifted his weight from his knees back onto his haunches to peer outside the tent at the two men still trussed up in front of the fire. 

Oliver ran a hand through his hair and blew out a long breath: It was one in the morning, he had two prisoners, a man with a severely broken leg, two boys, and no communication with the outside world. No one would even miss them for another 36 hours. They were a good three miles from the entrance to the park.

He was pretty sure Felicity had tried to sink this trip before it started, and his initial annoyance at her meddling was fading to resignation that, once again, she was probably right. Although what Tuck and his son would’ve done without him there he couldn’t imagine. 

“First things first.” Oliver looked Tuck in the eye. “We have to set this leg. Then we’ll worry about everything else.”

———————————————————————

An hour later Oliver wasn’t much closer to having a plan. Tuck had passed out when he set his leg, which wasn’t a bad thing; the boys were asleep as well. His two captives were still in front of the fire. Oliver threw a few more sticks on to feed it and then crouched in front of them.

“What brings you to this part of the woods,” he asked, in a soft but not friendly tone. Neither man would look at him. 

“We have a right to be here too,” one of them said darkly. 

“But not to come into our camp and cause trouble,” Oliver replied with a growl. The man who had spoken looked up and glared.

“Who do you think you are?” He spit on the ground, just missing Oliver’s boot.

Oliver leaned toward the fire so that his face was completely out of the shadows and let both men give him a long, hard look. Recognition did not dawn in either’s eyes.

“You’re not from around here,” Oliver confirmed softly, when he was sure neither of them knew who he was. He studied the ground between his feet for a moment, then raised his eyes to them and lowered the register of his voice even further.

“It would’ve been better if you’d never come into these woods,” he ground out, and their faces showed concern for the first time.

He got them up and moved them to the far side of the clearing, tying them up with their backs against a tree. They wouldn’t have a comfortable night, now that they were deprived of the campfire’s heat. Oliver settled onto the ground next to the fire to keep watch.

————————————————————————-

William woke first the next morning; Oliver heard the rustling in the shelter behind him and opened his eyes from his cat nap. When his son sidled up to him he looked up at him and smiled tiredly.

“Joshua’s asleep in your sleeping bag. What—“ He stopped abruptly as his eyes caught sight of the two men tied to the tree, their chins on their chests in sleep.

“William, buddy, come sit by me.” Oliver slung an arm across the boy’s shoulders and hugged him close when he was sitting on the ground next to him.

“Those men came into our campsite last night. They hurt Mr Tucker, but he’ll be fine as soon as we get him to a doctor. Joshua was a little freaked out, so I put him with you for the night.”

William shuddered, but whether it was from the story or the dying fire, Oliver couldn’t tell. He hugged him closer.

“We really need more sticks for this fire. They’re not going anywhere; you want to come with me to gather some up?”

William nodded, his eyes not leaving the two men, and both of them climbed to their feet quietly.

Oliver picked his way through the trees in the early morning light, filling his arms with all the sticks he could find. William was working too, but it was obvious he had a lot on his mind.

“What are you thinking, buddy,” Oliver asked quietly.

“Yesterday, Mr Tucker...he wasn’t very nice to you. About college.” Oliver nodded a little, a lump suddenly in his throat. “He bullied you...” William trailed off again for a moment, “...but you didn’t punch him in the nose.”

Oliver huffed a surprised laugh.

“No, I didn’t. Councilman Tucker and I have to work together to help run Star City. I wouldn’t get much done if I punched everybody in the nose who was mean to me. Besides, I need him on my side on the Anti-Vigilante bill. But I don’t want you to worry about it,” he added, turning back toward the campsite. “And he’s right, I was a terrible student. That’s why I’m so proud of how well you’re doing in school.”

“Felicity said you have more real world knowledge than anyone she’s ever met, and that it was just as good as college for you.”

Oliver smiled, feeling genuinely warm all over; it was the best he’d felt in 24 hours. 

Joshua was missing from the shelter when they got back; Oliver’s heart rate kicked up as he scanned the clearing, but he calmed once he saw that the tent flap was unzipped. He dropped his armload of sticks near the fire and squatted at the entrance to the tent. Joshua was curled up against his father, who was awake with a pained expression on his face.

“Good morning,” Oliver said softly.

“It hurts like hell,” Tuck said faintly, and Oliver nodded.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m going to do everything I can to get you back to civilization today. But first we need to eat.”

Tuck nodded and then let his head fall back with a stifled groan.

Oliver fed the fire and cooked up breakfast. His two prisoners awoke at some point while he was working; he gave them water but no food. 

He convinced Joshua to come out and eat his breakfast with William, then crawled into the tent and propped Tuck up so he could eat. When the injured man was sorted he came back out and joined the boys.

“What are we going to do, Mayor Queen,” Joshua asked quietly around a mouthful of food. 

Oliver sighed.

“I’m still trying to work that out. I can’t carry your dad and the supplies out of here while also guarding prisoners, but I can’t leave anyone here with them to go get help either. I’m open to suggestions,” he added with a smile, nudging the boy good-naturedly with his shoulder. 

William, on the other side of Joshua, frowned in thought as he chewed.

“We did a riddle in class last week, about a farmer who had a chicken, a fox, and some grain that he had to carry across a river, but he could only carry one thing at a time.” Beside him, Joshua’s face suddenly lit up in recognition.

“Oh yeah,” he interrupted excitedly.

“What did he do,” Oliver asked, finishing his last bite.

“He took the chicken across first, then came back for the fox, but then took the chicken BACK with him and left it there while he took the grain across, then went back for the chicken.”

Oliver took a swig of water and considered.

“You’re right; it sounds a lot like our situation. But that’s A LOT of walking, and I don’t think your dad would be very comfortable being carried three miles each way multiple times.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I think our best shot is for me to take those guys and head back to the entrance to the forest and try to flag down some help.”

Oliver gave the boys instructions on tending the fire and then asked them to roll up the sleeping bags while he consulted with Tuck. He was just about to back out of the tent when he heard a twig snap; by the sound of it something bigger than an eleven year old boy was stepping on it. 

Oliver converted his crawling into a backward roll out of the tent opening, surging to his feet with the knife out of his boot as soon as he was clear. Rene and Curtis stood just inside the clearing, frozen in their tracks. 

“Easy Hoss, it’s Friendlies,” Rene cautioned with one hand up.

Oliver relaxed immediately; he’d never been so happy to see the two of them.

“How did you know...” Oliver began, realizing he had a pretty good idea already. 

Curtis stepped close and lowered his voice.

“Felicity has one of her computers set up to reach out to your phone every 12 hours. It couldn’t make contact at midnight last night and alerted us. When the news reported that Coast City had two prisoners that escaped from jail and were headed in this general direction, she panicked.”

“That doesn’t explain how you knew where to look,” Oliver argued, although why, when he should just shut up and be grateful, he couldn’t say.

“She knew where William was,” Curtis supplied. Oliver leaned in closer, shocked.

“Tracking nanites,” he surmised in a whisper.

Curtis shrugged in acknowledgement. “Gummy vitamins are awesome.”

“But the ribbon you left behind really helped too,” Rene added quickly.

Oliver glared, but it was only half-hearted.

————————————————————————-

Within the hour they had packed everything up. Rene and Curtis had already headed out with the escaped convicts between them; they would send an ambulance as soon as they got to the main road. 

Tuck was stretched out on the ground by the fire, awaiting rescue. He watched the boys work under Oliver’s quiet tutelage, his face white and drawn with pain. At one point Oliver passed close by him and he reached out a hand to stop him. 

“I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to say this, so thank you, for everything. I don’t know how you did it, but you’re amazing.”

Oliver, crouched down near Tuck’s shoulder, huffed a laugh and glanced away. 

“You pick up a thing or two when you’re stranded on a deserted island.” He paused and looked back at his colleague. “I may have learned survival skills there, but I didn’t learn how to be a decent human being until I came back. My friends and family—and my run-ins with the vigilantes—taught me that.”

Tuck stared at him for a long moment before he swallowed and nodded. Oliver clapped a hand on his shoulder and rose to get back to work, vowing to himself that the next time he was invited to go camping he would follow Felicity’s advice and politely—but immediately—decline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was tough; I wanted to get them into a spot, but once I did I couldn’t think of how to get them out. Luckily, I had an eleven-year-old of my own to consult with over breakfast, so shout out to Ben for reminding me about the farmer riddle. 
> 
> And, as usual, Felicity saved the day anyway.


	8. With Regrets

The package appeared on their doorstep the weekend after their wedding reception. William stumbled over it on his way out to have brunch with Aunt Thea; he hollered to his dad over his shoulder as he galloped down the hallway, and Oliver stepped outside long enough to retrieve it.

It wasn’t large—about 16” square—wrapped in plain brown paper and tied together with ancient-looking string. “Mr & Mrs Queen” was written on it in a slightly old fashioned script. There was no address or postmark.

Oliver carried it to the dining table and set it down gingerly, although it wasn’t heavy and it didn’t rattle. It didn’t tick either, he noted with relief. 

“What was all the yelling about?”

Felicity emerged from the bedroom in a short silk robe, towel-drying her hair. She padded up to Oliver and skimmed a hand across his naked back as she came to a stop beside him.

“A present,” she queried, regarding the box in his hands. “How intriguing.” Felicity glanced sidelong up at him and snorted at his concerned expression.

“Always so suspicious, Mr Queen,” she scoffed, tossing her towel on the back of a dining chair and reaching out to pluck at the string. “It’s probably from Mrs What’s-Her-Name down the hall. She’s a thousand years old, and...” Felicity trailed off as Oliver’s hand stilled her own, his body suddenly stiff with caution. “Oliver...” A glance from him silenced her again.

He removed the string with careful fingers and set it aside. There was no tape or glue securing the paper; the flaps at the ends of the box lifted away slightly with the string gone. 

There was another long moment of silence while they stood side by side eyeing the package. Felicity huffed a small sigh of exasperation. Whether that was what spurred him on she couldn’t tell, but his hands were suddenly pulling the paper away from the box, smoothing it down on the table top.

The box was wooden, with a hinged lid. There was no lock or latch, and while obviously old, it was of good quality. Oliver ran his fingers over the top and around the sides, searching for clues, but there were none. 

“Stand over there,” he ordered his wife, nodding in the direction of the sofa. Felicity rolled her eyes. 

“Oliver, don’t be an ass.”

He regarded her from eyes gone to slits, and for two heartbeats a silent battle of wills raged between them, but in the end he simply snaked an arm around her front and shifted her behind his shoulder. She ‘tsked’ in consternation but stayed put. 

A deep breath later he raised the lid; Felicity pushed up on her tiptoes, her hands bracketing his waist for balance, as she tried to get a better peek around his arm.

Whatever was inside was wrapped in cloth. Oliver’s fingers ghosted over the fabric, searching for signs of foul play. Satisfied that nothing obviously sinister was afoot, he lifted the object out of the box and unwrapped it. 

It was a small jeweled dagger in a scabbard. Felicity gasped when the late morning sunshine bounced off of the stones embedded in the handle as Oliver tilted it. He pulled the dagger out of its sheath slowly to find a flawless, razor-sharp blade. 

“Wha...” she began, but trailed off to nothing in wonder.

“League,” he said softly, sliding the dagger back into the scabbard with a click and turning it over in his hands. 

Felicity’s eyes had dropped back to the box. “There’s something else in there, I think.”

Oliver set the dagger down on the table and reached back in while Felicity slowly edged around her husband’s body to get a better look. The second bundle shifted in his hands as he lifted it, so he set it on the tabletop before pulling the cloth covering away.

They both swore under their breath when they saw it: An ornate, heavy necklace made up of rubies and pearls set in gold. The workmanship was clearly ancient, the cost unimaginable. Felicity reached out to run her fingers over it, and Oliver didn’t try to stop her. 

“Oliver,” she breathed, enraptured. She glanced up at him, but he was staring out over her head, somewhere else. Felicity’s eyes dropped to the interior of the box once again and she reached in.

“Hey, there’s a note...”

His hand whipped out to clasp her wrist before she could touch it and she gave a little shriek of surprise. 

“Oliver!” She protested sternly but he ignored her, pulling her hand back out of the box before releasing it and turning toward their bedroom to stride away. 

He was back in a moment, working on a pair of latex gloves. Felicity huffed at him and stuck a hand on her hip.

“You think the League of Assassins would send us priceless wedding presents and then poison the Congratulations letter?”

The look he gave her was an unequivocal yes. Felicity rolled her eyes again.

Oliver plucked the letter out of the box and unfolded it gingerly. He held it down far enough for her to be able to read it too:

“Dear Oliver,

If you’re reading this, two things have happened: I am dead (because if not I’d be handing these gifts to you myself),  
and you’ve finally gotten your handsome head out of your ass and married Felicity Smoak.

However long this is in the future, it is certainly too long, because anyone could have seen that she was the perfect match for you from the beginning. She is brilliant and strong and beautiful—qualities that counter yours perfectly—and it is Felicity more than anything that has kept you alive this long.

Regrets that I was unable to be there in person (such fun we could’ve had), but please accept these tokens of my affection for you both: To Felicity for being a fierce rival, and to Oliver for being my son’s best friend. Best wishes for a long and interesting life together.

Yours,  
Malcolm Merlyn

PS The machinations that brought this package to your door were from the remains of my estate, not the League, in case you’re concerned. MM”

Oliver tried his best to ignore the obvious shade—classic Malcolm—and re-read the letter quickly in case he’d missed an embedded clue. But then his eyes unfocused on the paper and he drifted for a moment: Of all his adversaries over the years, he had the most complex history with Merlyn, and thoughts of him inevitably took him back to his childhood and to Tommy. 

Felicity’s sigh of wonder finally brought him back to the present. 

“Well whadaya know,” she said softly, threading an arm through his and hugging it against her front. Oliver was suddenly reminded that they had the apartment to themselves for the morning, and that his bride was standing very close to him in next to nothing. 

He folded the letter and placed it back in the box with a small shake of his head, amazed once again at the incredible—and sometimes absurd—events of his life. 

Oliver removed his gloves, then maneuvered the arm trapped against his wife until he could hook it around her back, pulling her against him.

“How about some breakfast,” he offered in a husky growl. Felicity grinned up at him with a certain look in her eye. “And after that,” he continued, eyebrows flicking up suggestively, “I’ll make you pancakes.”


	9. Billy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m currently in a Season 5 rewatch, and I’m feeling the need to put some closure on the death of Billy Malone. He was a blah character written in a blah way, and in the end it feels like the writers didn’t know whether to make him into a big deal or not. They spent a couple of episodes making Oliver feel like shit about him, but at the same time had Felicity throw a party for fake-Laurel instead of a wake for her dead boyfriend. They attempted to get us to think that Felicity’s subsequent plunge into darkness was due to grief over his death, but I never bought it for a minute; she could hardly bring herself to call him her boyfriend when he was alive. Personally, I think Olicity needed to have one last conversation about him, for both their sakes. So here it is.
> 
> My song of choice for this is Arsonist’s Lullaby, by Hozier.

It started on a Monday afternoon. Oliver had arrived home first for once, and was standing in the kitchen fixing up a surprise snack for William when his son trudged through the door dragging his backpack.

“Tough day,” Oliver chuckled, taking in the boy’s downtrodden look. William flung himself onto a bar stool and reached for a grape off the plate, until his father’s look stopped him in his tracks.

“Wash your hands, buddy.”

He grumped his way around the counter to the sink, and as they stood side by side Oliver shifted his weight toward his son and nudged him with his shoulder in sympathy.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” William grumbled. “Just annoyed.”

“Oh?” Oliver pushed the plate closer to him as he climbed back up on his perch at the island.

“This kid at school, Jake? He teases me by refusing to call me by my name, and it really bothers me.”

Oliver concentrated on wiping around the sink to cover his relief that it wasn’t more serious than name-calling. “What has he been calling you?”

“Billy.”

The sound of William’s voice suddenly seemed to bounce off Oliver’s chest and echo around the room, getting louder with each reverberation. His vision strobed and his chest tightened like a vice. He gripped the edge of the sink and swallowed hard, already feeling his breathing grow rapid and shallow. 

“Dad? Are you alright?”

Oliver wanted to drop to all fours, but he refused to go down in front of his son. He pushed away from the sink and stumbled to his bedroom, with a strangled “I’m fine,” to William. He made it to the bathroom and splashed water on his face, then collapsed against the counter with his wrists under the cold stream, fighting down nausea.

William, uncertain what to do, waited and watched the doorway wide-eyed. After a few minutes, when his father didn’t reappear and he couldn’t find Raisa, he dialed up Felicity from the safety of his bedroom. She answered immediately.

“Hey kiddo, what’s up?” 

“It’s dad. He’s acting funny all of a sudden. I think something’s wrong.”

“Where are you?” Felicity’s voice had lost its cheerful lilt.

“At home.”

“Okay. I was just heading out. I’ll be there soon.”

Felicity once again thanked Google that Oliver had chosen an apartment mere blocks from the loft; even walking she could be there in less than ten minutes. She let herself in quickly but quietly, slipping her heels off at the door and continuing forward on silent, bare feet.

William was hovering in the doorway to his bedroom, an unreadable expression on his face; she stopped long enough to run a comforting hand down his arm before heading in to their bedroom.

“Oliver?” She said his name oh so softly, peeking her head around the door into the bathroom where he slumped, knees on the floor and his hands under the running water. She skirted around him, stepping over his feet, and gingerly sat on the lowered toilet seat.

He was trying to get his breathing under control, that much was obvious. His eyes were clamped shut, his lips apart, breaths hissing through his teeth. Felicity reached out a tentative hand and placed it on his shoulder. 

They remained that way for a good minute, with her flattened palm against him, firm but unmoving. It seemed to help ground him, because slowly his breathing began to regulate, and he shifted back away from the sink. Felicity stood up enough to grab a towel with her free hand and gently pat his hands dry, but left the water to run; the noise was soothing.

Oliver finally sat down completely, sprawled back against the wall. A bit of floor space materialized between his legs, and Felicity crept forward and knelt there. She circled her arms under his and around his back and gently pulled herself against him, and his arms immediately came around her. He hugged her against him, a lifeline, his cheek resting against the top of her head. 

They sat that way for several more minutes, and eventually Felicity closed her eyes, concentrating on taking deep, even breaths that Oliver could feel and mimic. Her glasses were crushed against her face and her legs were complaining about being stuck in a crouch, but she ignored all of that and listened to his heartbeat instead. 

“M’okay,” he mumbled finally, letting go of her and running a shaking hand through his hair. Felicity pulled away, stifling a groan about her cramped legs. She stood and held a hand out for him, but he waved her off, so she stepped over him and out into their bedroom while he sorted himself out and got up.

Felicity moved out into the living room where William was sitting on the edge of the couch, anxious. She crossed the room to him and sat down.

“Is Dad okay,” he asked softly, not meeting her eyes.

“He will be, buddy. He—“ Felicity stopped and sighed. “He’s been through a lot, over the years, and sometimes those things...come back.” She reached out to ghost a hand over his hair. “He’s feeling better, but we’ll need to keep things low-key tonight. Maybe we can heat up some soup for dinner?”

William nodded and they both stood to head into the kitchen.

————————————————————————

It happened again the next day during a budget meeting. Oliver had felt it coming on all morning: He had snapped at Thea for playing music too loudly in her office, but then he’d seen the expression on her face— and on Quentin’s—and knew it really wasn’t loud at all. Lunch out in a crowded restaurant had been overwhelming, with too many voices, and too much movement.

Then, in the middle of Councilman Collin’s report, an aide accidentally dropped a stapler on the conference table, and Oliver jumped as if he’d been shot. Quentin, bless him, saw it happen and—knowing the signs so well—suggested that everyone take a coffee break, then subtly shielded his mayor until they could get out of the room and into his office.

Oliver made it to his private wash room before he got sick. Quentin stood guard outside the door, texting Thea and then, as the minutes dragged on, Felicity. 

When Oliver finally emerged from the wash room all three of them were standing there, and it was almost enough to send him back inside.

“Ollie,” Thea said softly, but he held up a hand to warn her off. Felicity ignored his gesture and moved in, reaching out to steady him. He let her guide him to his seat behind the desk; they had already pulled the shades over all the windows and the half-darkness was comforting.

“Oliver,” Felicity began, perching on the edge of his desk as Thea and Quentin settled into chairs. “Do you know what’s triggered you?”

He sat, fingertips smoothing out his eyebrows in the way they did when he was, just, DONE. He was careful not to meet anyone’s eye, shaking his head slowly.

“I’m fine,” he said firmly, and saw Thea sit back in exasperation in his peripheral vision.

“Well you’re done for the day, Mr Mayor,” Quentin rasped out. “For the night too.”

Oliver looked up for the first time, his body suddenly stiff with defiance.

“Cayden—“ he began, but Thea took over his sentence, cutting him off.

“—James will still be there tomorrow. Quentin, John, and I will look after things tonight. You and Felicity need to go home and go to bed.”

Oliver wasn’t so strung out that he couldn’t lift a cheeky eyebrow at her choice of words, and Thea blushed, annoyed.

“You know what I mean.” Her voice softened as she went on. “You need rest, and quiet. You can’t be out in the field like this.”

Oliver stared off into the distance for a long moment while everyone in the room held their breath, but eventually he nodded. 

“Okay,” he whispered. 

———————————————————————

The nightmare happened that night. Even having William safe and secure, and finally having Felicity forever—as his WIFE—Oliver knew better than to think that he was cured of the occasional night terror. But the emotional peace of the last few months had weakened them to merely bad dreams, most of which faded from memory as soon as he awoke.

This one...this one was of the old variety, the kind that sent him tumbling out of bed with a shout, and left him sweating and quivering on the far side of the room in the darkness.

Felicity had rolled out of bed on her side, having learned the hard way to stay away from him until he was fully awake. She called his name very very softly but kept her distance. He could see her body outlined against the faint light seeping around the edges of the curtains, and something about the way she was holding herself, so very still and anxious—just like that night—pushed him over the edge. 

He collapsed in a heap on the spot, folding in on himself and covering his head with his arms, biting back a howl of pain and remorse that forced its way out as a low moan.

He said his wife’s name, quietly: It was a broken, tear-filled sound.

Felicity launched herself across the room with a cry of her own, stumbling to the floor and finishing the journey on her hands and knees until she could wrap her whole body around him.

He gasped when she made contact but grabbed after her; they went over in a tangle of arms and legs as he tried to burrow his way into her. Her tears fell freely, coursing down her cheeks as she cradled the strongest man she had ever known, reduced to this state by the horrors of his past. 

Time had no meaning as they lay on the floor together, wrapped around each other, both holding on for dear life. They hadn’t managed to stay completely on the deep shag rug, and the bare concrete floor under them was merciless; Oliver was taking the brunt of the cold as she was mostly on top of him. A shiver coursed through him and he clutched her tighter; for a moment she thought he might snap her in half.

“Oliver,” she whispered into his hair, her free hand stroking anything she could reach. “Let’s get back in bed.”

He didn’t respond at first, and she wondered if she had reached him, but then he began to unwind himself. Felicity pushed up and away, and though he clutched her tighter for a second, he did let her go. She clambered under the covers, sliding to the far side of the bed and holding the duvet up to admit him. Oliver crawled into bed like a dead man, utterly spent, and when he collapsed on his side she wrapped herself around him again.

“Can you tell me,” she asked, oh so softly, and he shifted in her arms. She waited, the essence of patience, until he finally heaved in a giant breath and closed his hands reflexively in a squeeze against her body.

“It’s...Billy,” he finally choked out. “William...” He swallowed and cleared his throat. “A kid at school has been teasing him, calling him Billy. He told me yesterday and I just...”

“Oh Oliver,” she said again, because she didn’t know what else to say.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, utterly broken, and she immediately shifted down on the bed until they were face to face and she could hold his face between her hands.

“I’m sorry too, but you have to know something. I should have told you this a long time ago.”

Felicity paused until Oliver raised his eyes to hers, listening. He was reluctant—but at the same time desperate—to hear what she had to say. 

“Oliver, the night he...the night Billy died. And the months after, when I went dark. That wasn’t... it wasn’t because I had loved him. He was a nice guy, and he was good to me. But I didn’t love him, Oliver. I never did. Those tears, they weren’t for him, not really. They were for you, and for me. For the whole damn mess we’d gotten ourselves into, and all the pain. I couldn’t love Billy, Oliver. Because I’ve always, always loved you.”

The two of them lay there silently, the darkness an insulator that kept their expressions mostly hidden. Oliver’s breathing was still a little uneven; Felicity pushed forward and kissed his forehead tenderly.

“Do you understand me? Oliver, it’s not your fault,” she whispered against his skin. “Chase killed Billy, and Chase is dead. We’re safe. You don’t have to carry an extra burden just for my sake. It’s over. It’s over.”

She felt him nod against her mouth, and she kissed his forehead again, then gently left kisses over both of his closed eyelids, along his cheekbone, and down his jaw. Oliver turned his face into her, capturing her lips with his own when she was close enough. 

He reached for her and rolled onto his back, taking her with him, but when he made no further move Felicity relaxed on top of him, grounding him with her body weight and her warmth as she nestled into his neck. His grip finally relaxed and his breathing evened out, and his wife sighed in shaky relief. 

For now, Oliver Queen slept.


	10. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snippet of 6.11 from a different perspective.

Diggle emerged from the locker room, fresh out of a fifteen minute shower. The last time they’d had to make repairs down here Oliver had upgraded the hot water heater, and he would forever be grateful. No one seemed to notice he was in the room, so he stopped to lean against the doorway for a moment and observe.

He saw William first, clearly unhappy, his butt on the conference table. He was breaking one of fastidious Oliver Queen’s cardinal rules, but there you go. This wasn’t exactly the moment to break out the handbook.

A quick survey of the room gave him Oliver’s 20, on the far side of Felicity’s Lair, leaning against the railing. He recognized the demeanor: This was a man who was currently unwilling to engage. It threw John back to those dark hours after Felicity was shot—when they weren’t sure whether she would live or die. He and Laurel and Thea had taken turns either sitting at the hospital or sitting comms, because Oliver Queen was hellbent on tearing up Ghosts. Hellbent on not thinking about what he might be losing on an operating table. 

The man who never hesitated to move forward in combat had a tendency to go decidedly the other way when it came time to feel things.

As he watched, Felicity spun her chair to her husband—wow, that still seemed too good to be true—and got up to cross the room to him. From his spot on the other side of the room their conversation was too low to hear, but after six years with these people it wasn’t hard to guess what they were saying. She would be nudging him to go speak to his son, and Oliver would be arguing that William should have some space. 

Diggle rolled his eyes at the thought: He knew Oliver Queen like the back of his hand—better than he’d known his own flesh-and-blood brother—and though the man had grown and matured over the years, his first instinct would always be to distance himself. But even an emotionally guarded, reluctant man was better than the train wreck that had come off that island. 

His thoughts drifted back to those first months with Oliver, out in public trailing his callous asshole facade, and underground in the darkness with a man coiled so tight you could almost hear the sound of him snapping. That man, he’d come to realize, wasn’t planning on living long, and therefore couldn’t afford to have attachments. Compassion and affection would just complicate his inevitable end.

And then came the day John Diggle would never forget: The day he pulled his gun out of surprise on a blonde who didn’t even flinch, just pleaded for his help because she’d found Oliver Queen bleeding out in her car and he was...heavy. You have no idea, lady. 

From then on, in tiny increments, Oliver began to uncoil. It wasn’t a smooth process, God knows, but it was fairly steady. Diggle had been given the privilege of a front row seat to all the touches that began to linger, to smiles that became winks and nudges, to hugs that seemed to last forever. And every time Felicity pulled away she took another piece of Oliver’s shell with her. 

He watched them now with a sigh of satisfaction; they had come through so much, survived the—literally—unimaginable, and now they were having one of those ordinary, married couple discussions about whether or not they were permanently screwing up their kid. 

They had apparently come to some kind of understanding, because Felicity’s hand smoothed out Oliver’s tie in a way that said she’d made her point stick, and a look materialized on her husband’s face in response: A smirk, with heat and promise behind it. He didn’t know what she’d said, but John knew that look. He had GIVEN that look. That was 100% This Man Has Baby Fever look. John folded his arms and focused elsewhere, staring in thought. 

That look had been floating around his own face lately. JJ was getting bigger, more independent, and John was suddenly missing the baby he used to be. He had lived with the knowledge of Flashpoint for over a year now, and the idea that he had once had a daughter haunted him. Despite Lyla’s crazy schedule, or maybe because of it, the subject of expanding their family seemed to come up every time they had two minutes alone. 

They hadn’t made the decision to become parents the first time, so this negotiation, this DANCE, was new and terrifying; were you ever ready for parenthood, even when you were already in it? John shook his head as he shifted his weight off the doorframe.  
He and Lyla had come through some heavy stuff too, and they had remained solid. 

He glanced once more at his partners, still sharing their moment, and then he slipped away to the underground garage. Metas, time travel, aliens, Nazis, none of that had been any match for a united Oliver and Felicity. 

They’d figure it out.


End file.
